The glaive didn't come for his head.
Riven blinked. His body had already begun to brace for impact — ready to launch a desperate counterstrike.
But the blade never came.
Instead, it swept past him entirely.
Left. Not forward.
Straight toward Ziren.
His eyes widened — not from pain, but from realization.
She wasn't attacking him.
She'd never been planning to.
Riven turned, following the arc of her movement, and saw it clearly now: the way her stance had subtly shifted over the last few exchanges… the way she'd always kept the pressure pushing him in one direction… the way she'd angled their fight, not toward victory, but toward positioning.
They were near Ziren now.
Too near.
And Lara's glaive was already in motion — the blade gleaming, her qi spiraling around it in razor-sharp threads.
A trap, he thought.
He'd never been the end goal.
Not to her.
Indeed, for Lara — revenge was never the objective.
First place.
That was the finish line.
That had always been the finish line.
Riven had just been the stepping stone.
A convenient excuse. A believable one. Everyone bought it — even him. Especially him.
But Ziren?
Ziren was the real problem.
She knew him. Knew he was strange. Detached in a way most cultivators weren't.
He wouldn't interfere in someone else's duel. Wouldn't interrupt a one-on-one unless the rules were broken. If she challenged Riven and took him out first, Ziren would wait. He'd fight whoever remained.
So she made it look real. Fueled by pride and fury. Made her obsession believable.
She'd planned to wait just a little longer. Tire Riven out more. Make it clean.
But then she'd seen his eyes.
Unmotivated. Done.
She was sure of it.
He had given up already. His mind was not on the fight anymore.
And this was it — the window.
The moment where he wouldn't strike.
Where she was open, yes — but only to someone who had no reason to care. No motivation left to act.
So she made her move.
Because Ziren wouldn't expect it.
After all, who could predict her taking such a risk in the middle of a fight?
Certainly not Ziren.
His expression didn't even shift until the very last moment — until the sound of wind split the air, and the edge of Lara's glaive came flashing toward him like a bolt of spiraling light.
Only then did his stance change.
Too late.
The glaive slammed into his side.
A clean hit.
The crowd gasped. A few disciples surged to their feet in the stands. Somewhere, someone actually screamed.
But before Lara could even register her own triumph — she felt it.
A shadow in her periphery. A presence behind her.
And then —
impact.
A heavy, brutal force cracked into her ribs from the side, sending her flying off her feet.
She crashed to the stage in a spinning heap — her glaive clattering out of reach, dust pluming in a slow arc where she hit the ground.
Lara's eyes flicked open in disbelief.
That—
What—
Riven stepped forward into view, leg still slightly extended from the kick.
She blinked once, pupils wide.
He'd kicked her.
But—
She had been sure he wouldn't even realize what was happening.
That he'd still be lost in thought, still thinking she was fighting him.
She'd seen it — or thought she had. The demotivated eyes. The slumped stance. The lack of urgency.
She was sure.
But reality disagreed.
Now, her own eyes widened with something else.
Resignation.
She'd miscalculated.
Badly.
He hadn't been checked out. He hadn't been done.
He'd simply waited.
And when she'd gambled everything on his inaction — he'd reacted with perfect timing.
What a calculating little shit.
And more than that…
He had the strength to make it count.
Lara's fingers curled weakly against the stone. She tried to push herself up — once — but her arm gave way. Her ribs burned. Something inside her chest screamed with every breath.
He'd hit her hard enough to end it in one kick.
Dust swirled around her fallen form. The crowd was silent for a heartbeat. Then a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled outward like thunder.
Disbelief, awe, ridiculing laughter, outrage. Disciples surged to their feet across the stands, pointing, gesturing wildly, half of them yelling over the other half.
"Did you see that?!"
"She really went for Ziren?"
"Yeah, is she stupid?"
"Shut up. Didn't you see Riven's face before? He looked done. She had him cornered — that was the perfect chance."
"Then why'd he still kick her?"
"I thought he gave up!"
"Because…!" One disciple hesitated. "...I don't know actually."
Another voice, lower. Thoughtful. "What if… he just acted?"
"You're saying—"
"He faked giving up."
A pause.
"That has to be it."
"What the hell. That's so—"
"Cunning," someone finished, almost admiringly.
There was silence for a beat.
Then: "Kind of hot, honestly."
"Shut up."
The crowd kept buzzing — the disciples, for once, seeming less like members of a brutal sect.
But down below, the stage had quieted again.
Across from where Lara lay sprawled in the dust, Ziren had also staggered — driven back by the blow, one hand hovering near his ribs. His fingers brushed lightly across the fabric, coming away red with blood.
But unlike her, he didn't fall.
He stood tall a moment later — slower, yes, but perfectly balanced. Composed.
For a heartbeat, he just stared at the blood on his hand. Then at Lara.
Then at Riven.
And something shifted.
Not in his stance — that had always been immaculate — but in the air around him.
A sharpness. A new weight.
His posture straightened.
His eyes narrowed — not with surprise, not with fury.
But with something far more dangerous.
Focus.
No more passivity.
No more quiet.
No more watching from the side.
A hum of energy passed through the arena, subtle and cold, like the sharp breath before a thunderclap.
Ziren exhaled slowly — and turned to fully face his final opponent.
The first place was not amused.